


The Golden Boy and the Bastard

by Ginipig



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Boys in training, Friendship, Gen, Homesickness, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Just Friends, Loneliness, Teenagers can be mean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-17
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-30 00:44:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19841986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginipig/pseuds/Ginipig
Summary: Alistair has already embarrassed himself during sparring this morning and overheard what the other recruits really think about him. The last thing he needs is Cullen Rutherford, literal and figurative golden boy, to come to his rescue. Or worse, to pity him. Or worst of all, try to fix him. But when Rutherford starts to talk, Alistair realizes they might not be so different after all.





	The Golden Boy and the Bastard

“Did you see him, though? The look on his face!”

“He’s been here so long the Mothers practically changed his diapers, you’d think he’d know how to handle a sword properly.”

Alistair stood still, hidden behind a pillar. He was clad in only a towel, but he’d paused to eavesdrop.

Since the assholes were excoriating him, he was pretty sure his sin was the lesser of the two.

“It’s pathetic, really. I didn’t know it was possible to lose every single sparring match!”

His eyes stung with tears he refused to let fall. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction, even if they couldn’t see.

And they called _him_ a bastard.

“Don’t be so hard on him.” That was Fletcher. Alistair waited for the other shoe to drop. “He never had a proper father to teach him how to be a man.”

There it was. Alistair swallowed painfully, but he forced a smirk. Fletcher was so obsessed with his bastardhood (bastardom?) that Alistair secretly wondered if the ugly oaf wasn’t some bann’s bastard himself, projecting any worries or fears or suspicions onto him.

“If he hadn’t gotten us all trapped in two hours of extra vigil last week, I might feel sorry he got knocked on his ass so many times.”

Alistair clenched his fists against his eyes. He’d tried so hard, he always did, but he’d coughed at the wrong time. That was one of so many reasons he hated vigils — how was he supposed to pray loudly and clearly for four hours and _not_ need to clear his throat? Surely even Andraste had taken water breaks.

“But did you see him after the last one? I thought he was going to cry right there in front of everyone!”

Alistair took a deep breath and prepared to step out from behind the pillar with a smooth one-liner that shamed every last one of them and their families, but he didn’t get the chance.

“Shouldn’t you all be finished and dressed by now?” A new voice, soft but firm, entered, and Alistair buried his face in his hands.

Rutherford. The one who had beaten him so soundly during his first sparring match that he’d never recovered. The one who had knocked him flat on his ass, and the absolute last person he wanted to get involved right now.

“We were just chatting, Cullen,” said Fletcher, the brown-noser.

Rutherford was the Templars’ golden boy — both literally (his hair was a disgustingly perfect golden blond) and figuratively. He’d been around long enough that he wasn’t the new kid anymore, even if he hadn’t been around as long as the rest of them, and now everyone wanted to be friends with him. Which was stupid because even Alistair had to admit that, annoying as it was, Rutherford’s earnest dedication to the Maker meant he actually tried to be a good, fair person. Not to mention that Rutherford was too devoted to the Maker and his studies to care about anything as frivolous as friends. But the rest of the idiots seemed to have only half a brain among them, so Alistair was hardly surprised.

“Gossiping, more like,” Rutherford scolded in his usual Disapproving Father voice, even though he was younger than most of them by at least a year. “‘Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker.’”

Even in his utter mortification, Alistair rolled his eyes. Only Rutherford would scold older boys for gossiping by quoting the Maker-damned Chant.

“C’mon, we were just —”

“Being mean.” Rutherford’s tone was curt. “Lying is a sin, Fletcher, and so is pride.” If Alistair hadn’t known better, he’d have thought the stoic, saintly Cullen Rutherford actually sounded angry. “Instead of laughing at someone for struggling, the kind thing to do would be to offer help. Unless you’re prepared to do that, perhaps you should keep your unkind thoughts to yourself. That goes for all of you.”

The group muttered and grumbled and shuffled their way out of the washroom. Alistair didn’t move, partly to be sure they were gone but mostly out of shock.

Why would Rutherford have done that? Had he heard everything and decided to defend Alistair? Or had he heard only part and decided to stop the talk for the sake of an anonymous someone? Rutherford wasn’t dumb, and it was obvious who they’d been making fun of.

But no one ever defended Alistair. He was the black sheep. The troublemaker. The one everyone prayed would get kicked out so they wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore.

Not that it mattered. The boys would just make fun of him for needing a knight in far shinier armor than his own (honestly, Rutherford’s armor was like a damned mirror, gleaming in the sunlight like Lake Calenhad) to protect him from the mean bullies.

He let out a resigned sigh and stepped out from behind the pillar to get dressed.

“Maker’s breath!” Rutherford blurted from where he’d been lurking on the other side of the pillar, yanking his hands away from his face.

For Alistair’s part, he simply shouted incoherently in surprise, stepped backward, and slipped in a puddle of water, landing painfully on his tailbone.

Then he shouted incoherently in pain.

“Are you — um —”

“‘M fine,” Alistair grunted, sitting up.

He was greeted by a fully-dressed, red-faced Rutherford, who was rubbing the back of his neck and avoiding Alistair’s gaze. “Ah — that is — uh, perhaps you should —”

Only then did Alistair realize his towel had fallen away, leaving him fully exposed to the person who had defended him not five minutes prior and who also happened to be the most religious recruit in training.

At that, he yelped, snatched the towel, and dove back behind the pillar, where he wrapped it tightly around himself and bit his lip so he wouldn’t burst into tears on the spot.

“Are you —”

“Fine.” Alistair’s voice cracked, as if today wasn’t bad enough. Then he cleared his throat and said, “I’m fine. Thanks. I’ll be out in a bit.”

He heard some shuffling, but it grew closer, not farther away.

“Here,” Rutherford said, and a hand held out Alistair’s clothes while still allowing him the privacy of the pillar.

Alistair snatched them and muttered, “Thanks,” as he pulled them on.

“Are you sure I can’t —”

“Please, just go,” Alistair said, mortified when his voice wavered. “I only need a minute and then I’ll be out.”

Why? Why did he have to be humiliated so many times today? Could the Maker really be angry with him for coughing during the vigil? Or did He, as everyone from the Mothers to the Chanters, from the Templars to the recruits loved to remind him, simply hate bastards?

Rutherford had made no noise indicating he’d done as Alistair requested, and sure enough, after a few moments he asked, “You heard them, didn’t you?”

Realizing that Rutherford would not, in fact, let him have a minute alone to recover his dignity, Alistair scrubbed his face roughly and, with a deep breath, pasted on his best grin and stepped out from behind the pillar.

“Heard what?” He walked across the washroom to hang his towel on the rack. “I hear almost nothing, if you listen to the Mothers. Which, of course, I don’t, because I cannot hear.”

“I meant when Fletcher —”

“Oh, I never hear a word Fletcher says!” Alistair said, faux-cheerfully, sitting down on a bench and pulling on his socks and boots. “I realized ages ago that I somehow seem to go conveniently deaf whenever that idiot opens his mouth, which isn’t an issue because he never says anything worth hearing anyway.”

Rutherford sat next to him and sighed but said nothing as Alistair began to lace his boots. After a while, he said, “They’re wrong, you know.”

“They aren’t, actually,” Alistair said with a grin — though this, like his tone, was also fake. “Everything they said was technically true.”

“I meant they were wrong to treat you that way.”

Alistair sat up straight and dropped his jaw dramatically. “Wow, really? Thank you! I had no idea. Can you quote the part in the Chant where Andraste says not to make fun of pathetic bastards so I can refer to it later?”

Alistair had never seen Rutherford roll his eyes before, but the way Rutherford now shook his head and looked away was pretty close. Except for the underlying disappointment, which Alistair recognized as the look he received from the Mothers on a regular basis.

Everyone was some form of disappointed in him.

He felt a little bad; Rutherford had likely meant well. But he’d been on the receiving end of well-meaning “nice” people before, and they usually had ulterior motives. He had no desire to be Rutherford’s charity case.

And that, of course, was when Rutherford placed a hand on his shoulder. Alistair flinched instinctively — he was unused to, and therefore hated, being touched. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had done so with a kind intent.

Rutherford, to his credit, immediately yanked his hand away and did not try again.

But he wasn’t giving up so easily. “You didn’t do so poorly today.”

Maker, he was really going to keep pushing this, wasn’t he?

“Lying is a sin,” Alistair parroted him from earlier, unveiling his most saccharine smile. “Pretty sure it’s one of the Maker’s commandments.”

“Good thing I’m not lying, then,” said Rutherford. “You were doing quite well in your first spar, and then —”

“Andraste’s flaming sword!” Alistair stood abruptly, throwing his hands in the air. His echo bounced cheerfully around the large washroom. “I don’t need you to try and make me feel better, and I certainly don’t need a champion to protect me from the mean bullies. I can take care of myself, okay?”

He turned to leave, but Rutherford was tenacious in his kindness.

“Anyone who’s ever seen you castigate Fletcher in only a few words and with a smile on your face can tell that.”

Rutherford’s tone set off alarm bells, and Alistair spun on his heel, expecting to find anger and derision.

Instead, he found a wry smirk, a raised eyebrow, and arms crossed in an almost haughty manner.

“Then why won’t you leave me alone?” Alistair asked. “Haven’t you heard? I have a sharp, wicked tongue. Be careful around me.”

Rutherford shook his head. “You never strike first. Only in defense. And I haven’t hurt you.”

Alistair froze. No one had ever called him out so blatantly. Not the real him, anyway. Only the obnoxious, irreverent, sarcastic him he let everyone see.

No one had ever paid enough attention to notice.

“What do you want from me?” he demanded.

Rutherford shrugged. “Nothing.”

“That’s a load of druffalo shit,” Alistair snapped. “Everyone wants something.”

No one talked to the Bastard otherwise.

“I don’t want anything,” said Rutherford.

“And I don’t need anything.” Alistair turned away. “Good talk, Rutherford. Let’s not do this again sometime.”

“That’s not true.” Rutherford’s voice at his back was soft. “I think you might need a friend.”

For perhaps the first time in his life, Alistair was struck speechless.

And motionless.

After a long moment, he turned around — first his head, with a glance over his shoulder, and then the rest of his body, slow and disbelieving.

He laughed. So what if it was built on years of disappointment and bitterness? “You don’t want to be friends with me. Maker, just talking to me could taint you with my evil bastardity. They’d think —”

“I don’t care what other people think.” Rutherford said it matter-of-factly, as if it really were that simple.

“That much is obvious.”

Rutherford chuckled. “I’m sure.”

Huh. That was new. No one had ever found his jokes funny before.

Nor had anyone, to Alistair’s knowledge, ever heard Cullen Rutherford laugh.

“Why — ?” Alistair couldn’t quite finish, though the question was sincere. Perhaps because it was sincere. If he never spoke the words aloud, maybe no one would know how pathetic and desperate he was.

Rutherford frowned, something too much like pity on his face. Alistair’s cheeks burned, and he bowed his head to look at the suddenly blurry floor.

“Well, I’ve —” Rutherford cleared his throat. “Recently been _encouraged_ not to …” A heavy sigh. “Hide in my room in my spare time like I haven’t had the Chant memorized since I was eight.”

He said the last like he was quoting someone, his tone almost mocking.

“What?” Alistair’s laugh stretched the word into several syllables. “Did one of the Mothers say that?”

Rutherford reddened and grumbled at the floor. “My sister.”

“You have a sister?”

“Two. And a brother. Mia is the older, annoying one.”

Alistair didn’t even have time to wonder what it would be like to have a single sibling, much less three, before Rutherford exploded.

“She writes once a week, and in every letter she asks if I’ve made any friends yet, as if I’m a young child first learning to play with others! And she tells me I shouldn’t be working so hard all the time even though I’m fortunate to have even been allowed to attend and need to catch up! She doesn’t even know what she’s talking about but she tells me that I should try to _be happy_ and _have fun_! And she won’t listen when I tell her that I _am_ happy here!”

Not only was that more words than Alistair had ever heard Rutherford string together, but it was also more emotion than he’d ever seen from the Templars’ and the Mothers’ golden boy.

“Well, it’s a good thing you haven’t been holding all your feelings in,” said Alistair. “Otherwise your sister might have a point, and wouldn’t that be unbearable.”

Rutherford blinked, mouth open slightly. Then the corners of his lips twitched. Dropping his gaze, he murmured, “She gets this stuck-up grin on her face whenever she’s right. It _is_ unbearable.”

Alistair might have laughed if his chest didn’t feel so tight. “Yeah, sounds awful. My condolences on your family caring about you,” he said quickly. Dismissively. “But — and not to make this about me or anything — what does any of this have to do with me?”

Rutherford frowned, but — in Alistair’s unrecognized and tragically underappreciated talent — the humor smoothed the expression away. If a joke came on the heels of something serious, laughing made people forget what came before.

So when Rutherford gave an awkward little chuckle followed immediately by him blushing and rubbing the back of his neck, Alistair was unprepared for what he’d say.

“Well, um …” Rutherford shrugged. “You’re fun.”

Alistair didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or stare blankly in disbelief at that statement.

So he compromised by gaping while making a couple of weird gurgling noises.

Was this some sort of elaborate joke? He actually looked around to see if there were other recruits secretly watching, but even as he did he knew Rutherford would never do something like that. Then again, Rutherford apparently didn’t understand what fun was if he thought Alistair was it.

Unless by “fun” he meant “an utter smart ass who consistently gets himself into trouble.” Alistair was definitely that.

Because Rutherford couldn’t possibly be serious. It sounded too good to be true.

Which meant it was.

And that snapped Alistair’s brain into defense mode. “So you’re saying that you want to be my friend so your sister will leave you alone?”

He refused to be fooled again. No one really wanted to be friends with the Bastard.

“No!” Rutherford looked horrified. “That’s not — I mean —” He groaned, face in his hands. “This is why I don’t have friends. I’m terrible at this.”

Alistair felt bad at that. He could relate. “I believe you.”

Rutherford grimaced, and it was Alistair’s turn to be horrified. That wasn’t what he’d meant, either.

Maker, this was turning out to be the weirdest day of his life that didn’t include him explaining to Mother Ruth why he was covered in candle wax and conclude with him scrubbing all the kitchen pots for two weeks.

“Sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his sweaty palms on his pants. “I am, too, you know.” He cleared his throat. “Terrible at this, I mean. Maybe just, uh … start over?”

Rutherford nodded. “Okay. Um.” He took a deep breath, and so did Alistair. “Mia’s been nagging me about making friends since I arrived here. But I’ve had no desire to do so, or any interest in being friends with any of our fellow recruits.”

“Understandable,” Alistair said, tone immensely reasonable. “All our peers are terrible.”

Rutherford opened his mouth to protest, then shrugged. “I have certainly not found any of them worth writing to Mia about. Except to explain that most aren’t very dedicated to their studies or interested in getting to know a commoner from a small village such as Honnleath — until he might be able to help them in some way.”

Alistair had never considered that, and for the first time he felt sorry for Cullen Rutherford. He’d come to the Templars late — at thirteen, when the standard age was eleven and Alistair had been dumped here at ten — and had a family he probably missed, even if he did choose this life. The other recruits, including Alistair, had given him a wide berth since he’d arrived, and Rutherford was either clever, proud, or stubborn enough (and certainly more so than Alistair) to pretend he wanted it that way.

And then some of them had dared to go to him for help, to try to use him for their own gain?

Rutherford, as annoyingly devout as he could be at times, was not sanctimonious. Alistair had thought so at first because he’d never met anyone so thoroughly and honestly devoted to the Maker. But Rutherford tried to be everything a good Templar should be, and that included being kind. He probably helped them without arguing because it was the right thing to do.

Alistair was not generally an angry person — humor, he’d discovered, was a far better weapon — but a good person being taken advantage of wasn’t something he could brush off with a joke.

Rutherford didn’t need to know that, though.

“They’re probably just jealous,” Alistair said lightly. “I mean, I’ve been here since I was ten and I still don’t have the Chant memorized. On your own at eight is —”

“An exaggeration,” said Rutherford. “Mia likes to do that. I don’t have it all memorized now either.”

“How shameful for you.”

Rutherford smiled. “You remind me of her, actually.”

“Your annoying older sister?” Alistair raised a wry eyebrow. “Gee, thanks.”

Rutherford rolled his eyes, but he did it with a smile, which surprised Alistair. That sort of reaction wasn’t new, exactly, but Alistair hadn’t seen or experienced anything like it in … Maker, close to a decade now. Not since he’d lived in Redcliffe, back before everything went bad. Before Isolde, when Eamon used to (at least pretend to) care about him. Rutherford’s smile softened the eye roll, transforming the expression from the frustration and annoyance he still wasn’t immune to after all these years into something far kinder.

Almost … fond.

The idea made him uncomfortable, but not because he didn’t like it.

He liked it a lot. Was this what it meant to have friends?

“Mia teases me relentlessly, but she never really means it. And as annoying as that can be at times …” Rutherford’s voice gave out, and he reddened and looked away. With a shrug, he muttered, “I miss it.”

That was the moment that Alistair realized — Rutherford hadn’t been completely honest before. He did want something from Alistair.

He wanted Alistair’s help.

He wanted Alistair to be his friend.

But Alistair hadn’t been lying. He truly didn’t need anything. Not even a friend.

But he did want one.

“Yeah, okay.” He shrugged, tone as blandly agreeable as if they’d been discussing the weather.

Rutherford eyed him warily. “‘Yeah, okay’ what?”

“I agree to make fun of you just like your sister does. But only as a favor to her because she sounds like fun.”

Rutherford pressed his lips together, trying not to smile and failing to keep the corners of his mouth from twitching upward. “Such generosity.”

Alistair let out an exaggerated sigh, as if put-upon. “It really is.”

“On one condition, though,” said Rutherford.

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “I’m doing you a favor, Rutherford. Shouldn’t I be the one adding conditions?”

“First of all, it’s Cullen. Unless you want me to call you Guerrin.”

“That’s not my name,” Alistair snapped suddenly and vehemently.

Rutherford’s — Cullen’s eyes widened, and then he slowly nodded. “All right.”

Damn it. This was why he didn’t have any friends. He rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry, I just —”

Cullen held his hands up. “You don’t have to explain.” Smirking, he added, “We’re both pretty terrible at this.”

Something in Alistair’s chest swelled, and he had to blink back tears. Cullen had been more understanding in the last hour than anyone had ever been in his entire life.

“Can I call you Alistair?”

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Yes. Please. That’s definitely my name. Uh … Cullen.”

Cullen’s smile was shy, and Alistair imagined his own was, too.

“Well, Alistair, my only condition is that you understand …” Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, which was a curious and quite obvious tell. “That if you ever _want_ to explain — if you ever want to not joke and just talk — you can talk to me. And if you don’t ever want to,” he added quickly, “that’s okay, too.”

Alistair’s heart nearly stopped. Cullen might have been the first person in his life to look past the jokes and see not a smart-ass troublemaker, but …

He nodded too quickly to be natural. “Uh-huh. Yeah. Uh, understood.”

“Can I … talk about some things I noticed during your spars?”

“My condition is that you don’t try to fix me,” Alistair blurted. “I’m not ever going to be a perfect recruit, and nothing anyone does is going to make me want to memorize more of the Chant or enjoy vigils or change my mind and decide that I do want to become a Templar. I didn’t choose this and I don’t want it and I’ll never take vows. I’d rather be kicked out. So if you’re going to try to make me into —”

“I won’t ever try to fix you,” Cullen said softly. “Only the willing should take vows and even go through training. I’ve wanted to be a Templar since I was very young, but I would never try to force that on anyone. Least of all you.”

“Oh,” Alistair said eloquently. “Then why —”

“Your issue is confidence, not skill!” Cullen spoke quickly, as if to get his words in before Alistair inevitably interrupted again. “I always enjoy sparring with you because you’re quick and can easily adjust to your opponent. You very nearly had me a few times today. After you lost, you started to overthink, and that’s why you didn’t beat the others when I know you have the skill. The problem certainly isn’t any of those horrible things any of them said, and …” His voice lowered to almost a whisper. “I hope I didn’t make things worse by telling them to stop.”

“Oh,” Alistair repeated. He could say more, but he would need time to process all of that. He understood the gist, though, which boiled down to _You aren’t terrible, Alistair. Even Cullen Rutherford thinks so_. “Um, thanks.”

“You don’t have to, but if you ever wanted to practice to —”

“I’d like that,” said Alistair. “It would be fun.”

Cullen smiled shyly again. “Maybe tomorrow?”

Alistair nodded.

“Hey, Rutherford, you in here?” Alistair winced at the sound of Fletcher’s voice entering the washroom.

“Just finishing up,” Cullen said, arms crossed and watching Fletcher with a cool look as he approached.

When Fletcher caught sight of Alistair, his eyebrows jumped skyward, his gaze bouncing back and forth between Alistair and Cullen.

“All right, Cullen?” he asked, as if Alistair were attacking or otherwise infecting Cullen with his lack of social standing.

“Oh, not at all,” Alistair said, somber and serious. “We were just discussing the finer points of demon-summoning. I think we might be ready to have a go tomorrow.”

Cullen snorted, and Alistair struggled to keep a straight face at Fletcher’s half-horrified, half-disgusted expression.

“Thank you for your touching concern, Fletcher,” Cullen said dryly, “but we’ll be down to dinner in a few.”

Fletcher’s eyes narrowed at Alistair. “Watch yourself, Guerrin.”

“Don’t call him that.” Cullen’s voice echoed around the washroom like the crack of a whip. “His name is Alistair.”

Fletcher started, then clenched his jaw. “Right. See you at dinner.”

And he stalked out.

Alistair watched him go. “Okay, I know I said I didn’t need a champion,” he said, turning around, “but after watching him scamper like that, I might change my mind.”

Cullen smiled, shaking his head. “I’ll just stand with a shield at your back. Ready when you need me.”

They left the washroom together, side-by-side.

“So,” Alistair said after a moment. “Should I write to Mia and give her all the dirt on you now, or wait and respond to her next letter?”

Cullen sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Alistair grinned. This was going to be fun.


End file.
